One Letter
by spanishshipper
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John waited two years, but has lost Sherlock and himself. Dr. Watson decides to move out of 221B and embraces the emptiness that has begun to swallow him whole. He moves out- and finds a letter. 3/4 up!
1. Chapter 1

John and Sherlock really did nothing but argue. Well, John argued. Sherlock dismissed in a quickly put together sentence that made complete sense but angered John anyway. Sherlock couldn't win the fight—he just continued to put John and his anger on a shelf. That was how he always was. It happened when Sherlock used John's phone for the first time, then his laptop, then ate his food. John's flatmate was impossible, and so when John came in after a long day at the surgery to see the tails of Sherlock's coat disappear into his room, John stormed up the stairs. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his eyes alight with a familiar playful light. Sherlock was experimenting. And it had to do with John. And his room. _Where he slept._

He thoroughly enjoyed being around Sherlock. But goddamnit he hated him. And it was not until after Sherlock died that John could truly admit why he hated Sherlock as much as he appreciated him. It was love.

Sherlock Holmes was dead, and John was too. In his place stepped Dr. Watson, empty and sad with very little to inspire him to care. From the roof of Saint Bart's Sherlock had fallen. He had landed directly on John's heart.

Why was it always serious harm and death that cause humans to realize how deeply they care for others? Why must we be shaken out of our pathetic stupor by tragedy? Why can we not look at each other and know how perfect that other person is for us?

Dr. Watson hated himself for being such a coward, afraid to lose the comfortable atmosphere of the flat in exchange for a weird unrequited love situation. He had been afraid of losing Sherlock as his best mate. He had been afraid of telling Sherlock even the tiniest inkling of how he felt because then things would have changed. Most of all, he had been afraid of what telling Sherlock meant about him—he was afraid of the label and what that might do to his perception of himself. He was a coward, pathetic and now alone.

Two and a half years of living in a Sherlockless world, and of nights sleeping in a Sherlockless flat had left Dr. Watson exhausted. Or rather, these two years had acknowledged the very obvious fact that he had no energy. It was impossible to be exhausted of energy if none existed in the first place. Dr. Watson was empty, and so he made the decision to fill that space with a new flat.

Mrs. Hudson cried, begging him not to leave her too. She said _too. _Sherlock and John were a unit and Sherlock was dead and John was dead. Dr. Watson smiled tight lipped and hugged her. He promised to visit. They do meet for tea every few weeks. She misses John. So does he.

The new flat was 9 Outer Circle, parallel to the Baker Street one. There was nothing even remotely comfortable about Outer Circle. It was a busy road, and there was no sociopath at the window drowning out the cars with his violin. His landlord thought himself real royalty and so Dr. Watson was given the highest rent he had ever seen for the smallest excuse for a flat he had ever seen. The landlord justified the price because 'he had furnished it'.

It was one room, with a kitchen he couldn't turn around in without hitting a knob or handle. There was a garbage shoot. The only saving grace was the fridge. The edge of the kitchen counter next to the sink jutted out a bit, just enough that the land Lord Almighty supplied a chair and called it the kitchen table. Three steps back and four to the right was the futon, "useful for both lounging with friends and taking a nap." This is what counted as the bed. It smelled odd. Dr. Watson covered it in blankets from Baker Street, never letting the black velvet that originally covered it touch him. Across from the futon was a crooked full-length mirror next to a yellowing white wardrobe. Upon opening, Dr. Watson is hit with the smell of mildew and aging wood.

Dr. Watson accepted it because there was literally no room for Sherlock here. There was no room for John here. Just Dr. Watson and nothing else.

The next day, two and a half years after Sherlock had Fallen, Dr. Watson packed up his room at 221 Baker Street. He started with his clothes, knowing they were the easiest to get through. Sure, this was the jumper he had worn to this crime scene, and didn't he wear those socks to that other crime scene, and this is what he had worn on their holiday—no. They were just clothes. The memories would wash out just as easily as John had.

He moved on to his books. Hardly any of them could go to the flat_ita_, as Greg had called it upon visiting, and so Dr. Watson just picked an obnoxiously large dictionary—he wasn't sure if it was his or Sherlock's but it smelled nice and had the proper definition of

u·su·fruct /ˈyo͞ozəˌfrəkt/ N.

The right to enjoy the use and advantages of another's property short of the destruction or waste of its substance.

He also took the medical humour book Molly had gotten him for Christmas. It wasn't funny but it was worth it.

He packed the rest of the books away, and Mrs. Hudson's sons hauled them to the truck. The books were getting donated to the nearest library. It was only a few blocks from his Outer anyway, if he needed to see them for some dire reason. Next was the bookshelf in his room. Dr. Watson was dressed in a tight wifebeater, white and drenched with sweat. He filled his hours not at the surgery at the gym. He grieved through exercise and so he did so with classic military determination. His trousers were cargo, dirty but easy to move in. He began to deconstruct it, starting with the shelves. He remembered when Sherlock—**no**_. _Dr. Watson had gone a good few hours without thinking about the memories in this blasted flat. He was not going to do that. He began to think of all of the medical jokes he could, even managing to smile a tiny bit when _osteosarcoma _was changed to _osteosarcasm. _Really, the idea of cancer wasn't funny. But sometimes there was nothing to do but laugh when a book was written specifically to make you do so.

The shelves were hollow, and as he turned the first shelf to empty it out, Dr. Watson was suddenly hit in the face with a bizarre number of things. A lighter, an inconceivable amount of dirt, and a green tie that he recalled Lestrade making fun of at a crime scene. Sherlock must have hidden it here.

Dr. Watson coughed and coughed until he knew the thought of _him _was out of his mind. He grabbed the next shelf roughly, holding it at arm's length and dumping it onto the floor. Three slips of papers came out, followed by three more lighters and what looked like a microphone. Wait, what? Dr. Watson picked it up, blowing dust off of it and pulled on the wire. It hooked into the bigger part of the shelf and when he tugged it hard, it came out, a small satellite attached to it. There was a green light blinking from the satellite, and he calmly said,

"Whoever this is, most likely Mycroft and the British government, you'll need to bug my new flat at 9 Outer Circle. I'm leaving this empty hole of a place."

He put it down, and shook his head, groping for the last shelf and turning it on its side once in his grip. This one contained the most junk. There was actually a tiny book within it—the cover said _Two Hundred and Two Things to be Happy About. _Dr. Watson laughed darkly and threw it back into the shelf. Among the dirt that had poured out was a single darkened envelope. Written in a handwriting uncomfortably familiar, his name.

_John. Open when found, if convenient. _

Dr. Watson saw his actions in slow motion. He grabs the box cutter from one of the infinite pockets and rips the envelope open. He got hit with the most amazing sniff of Sherlock's cologne. **Stop. **Dr. Watson couldn't resist what the universe was offering. He unfolded the page of slightly smeared ink, remembering that Sherlock loved to use pens that had too much ink. He remembered everything.

"Each word needs to have impact, John, if I am going to pass my very limited time writing rather than texting. Ink has impact. Ink actually is made by pressurizing a combination of substances and one could say that pressure on a substance is much like an impact on said substance. So yes, impact. Ink." There was a smirk on Sherlock's face. As quickly he had known it was there, it was gone.

Dr. Watson read the letter, and immediately after doing so, he got up. He started screaming, begging the Hudson brothers to come back, and to bring everything back in, he wasn't moving! Stop! There was nothing that could make him move now. This was his flat and it was also Sherlock's flat and he was so deliriously happy. As they brought everything back in, John laid on the bed, looking up at the ceiling with the letter grasped in his hand.

Written on it was a letter from the genius consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The Letter

John,

If you have found this, something has happened between us that has proved so irreparable that you have made the decision to move out. You wouldn't have undone the bookshelf otherwise. I very much doubt that it is because of me, since I can convince you to stay with a deduction and a half. That's not important. Of time we have little, my dear Watson.

Seeing as you are reading this, you have either moved out because you believe yourself ridiculously in love with another person or something has happened to me, making me unable to stop you from leaving me. If I have somehow died, know that I am not dead. I am alive and well, and I can prove it. Mrs. Hudson of course is very well trained and under my eye at all times. When I passed, if she said "please don't leave, John. Don't leave me too." When you told her you were leaving, I am alive. If she offers to help you move my things out, I am well and truly dead. I am sorry for that. You can stop reading if I am dead and move on. I am so sorry.

However, I am glad you continued to read anyway. I have sources everywhere, John. My brother is the British government, and if I am alive based on the above criteria, I have kept in touch with him. I promise you, John, I am on my way back. Move all of your things back into 221B Baker Street. In exchange for this, I give you permission to throw away all things you find odd or weird in the fridge and kitchen. My experiments will have expired by now and clearly I do not have the ability to properly record what happened. Please clean it all out.

You must know that I care about you more than I ever have for any single organism in my entire life. When you call me fantastic or incredible, my stomach does bizarrely unscientific things. I have done much research on this and my hypothesis has proven correct, as always; I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with you, John H. Watson. Just wait a little longer.

Text Mycroft and let him know you found this. He will give you a more specific idea of when I will be home to you. Please don't leave me, John. Don't leave us. I will return to you.

-S


	3. First Reunion

Mycroft received a text, and upon opening it, smirked.

_Bloody bastard. Found it. –JHW_

He looked around the room, sighing into the arm chair and closing his book. He quickly composed a text back.

_Would you like the British government to buy you a new book case? –MH_

His fingers flew through three more texts, one to Mrs. Hudson, one to Molly Hooper, and one to his long-dead brother.

_John knows. Please make him tea. –MH_

_John knows. Prepare for possible anger but also many tight hugs. –MH_

_John knows. Come home. –MH_

John had the apartment sparkling clean in three days, already having quit his job at the surgery. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't accept rent. John just bought her groceries every few weeks. In his will, Sherlock had left him three hundred thousand pounds. Dr. Watson had not touched that money but that was then and this was now and Sherlock was _alive. _John began spending money on things that he wanted their flat to have—a better TV, a minifridge for his room, and actual shelves on the wall rather than the several bookcases thrown everywhere. He left his bookshelf in his room, smirking whenever he saw it.

After he found the letter, John was filled with a happiness so new to him that he was actually scared of how he felt. What did this mean? Sherlock would be coming back. Sherlock, king of Irritating John Watson, master of Embarrassing Deductions, he would be here. He had texted Mycroft, and had gotten back an annoyingly witty but still classic Holmesian response. He had ignored it. His phone buzzed twenty minutes later.

_Thirty three days. –MH_

Yes, he hated the Holmes brothers. But in thirty three days John would be whole again and so it was acceptable.

Sherlock Holmes hated France. He hated how everyone pretended that they hated everyone else and he could tell that this curator was sleeping with this artist and good God man how could you be so dull? Can you not see that that artist is madly in love with the woman who bought her most recent painting? Sex for these people was a way of filling a void; the thought process was easy enough to understand. Sherlock Holmes hated France and he hated how long it had been since he had seen John Watson.

The French were keeping him from his love and therefore the French needed to be taken from the equation.

Afraid that mass murder of all things French would be too time consuming to execute, Sherlock resigned himself to murmuring perfectly correct insults at those who dare walk by his spying bench. He had been observing the last of Moriarty's minions as he lived his life here in this dreadful country, and the text from Mycroft four weeks ago left very little to spare. He was on the twenty eighth day. There was tomorrow, the day after, and then the final day, the day he saw John for the first time since having professed his love through ink.

This man had to die and so Sherlock pulled his hair beneath an airtight hairnet, put booties on his feet, stepped into a large plastic jumpsuit, and finally put on gloves. This would be the last of the deaths, and the easiest. Sherlock was a master at faking suicides. This one would be no different, and a lot easier—Moriarty's man lived on the fifteenth floor and had no friends. No one would be surprised.

_what should I wear where should I be sitting does my hair look okay what should I say to him should I let him know he killed me for two years should I kiss him should I tell him that I love him back should I scream at him should I just make him tea will he want food has he been nourishing himself over the last two years I get to see him tomorrow tomorrow tomorrowtomorrowtomorrow_

"John! John!" Mrs. Hudson had grown cross with him. John had been staring at one specific spot in her kitchen table for the last three minutes. Mrs. Hudson had been trying to tell him about the day she met her husband. It was a cute story, but one he had heard four different times, and John couldn't focus. His hands were shaking and that was causing his tea to spill, the liquid warming his fingers.

"I. I am sorry, Mrs. H. I am just very tired. I should go lay down, yes? Thank you for the tea." The nervousness had made him into a ghost of himself, and so he glided through the gentle kiss atop his landlady's head, he glided up to Sherlock's room, and sat himself down on the bed. He had been sleeping here for thirty two days and it had made any and all nightmares go away. He dreamed nothing because he surrounded himself with the cocoon of Sherlock Holmes.

He had left his phone in the kitchen atop the counter as to avoid checking it for the time every thirty three seconds. He could hear it buzzing from where he was sitting, so he stood, and walked over to it. The number was unfamiliar, a French area code, and he flipped it open to hear rampant French in a high pitched voice. He scowled and closed it. He didn't speak French. He hated France.

"John." There it was. A deep voice that resonated through 221B Baker Street with a demanding presence. A voice that belonged in this flat. The good doctor's spine stiffened, and he turned to see Sherlock Holmes, fifteen pounds lighter and three years older, standing in the archway that led into the kitchen.

"Y-you're…here. A day early." Sherlock shook his head, his eyes filled with the same emotion John had seen at Baskerville in front of that fire. Anger and sadness and confusion, but it all was reflected onto Sherlock. John knew then that he had been torturing himself for three years. His long legs took him four steps forward, now only two feet in front of John. The familiar shadow of his flatmate over him made John shiver.

"No, John. I am nearly three years late. I couldn't keep you waiting another twenty four hours."

John nodded and felt his hand twitch slightly. His arm lifted up and his fingertips traced the bags beneath the detective's eyes. The man didn't flinch. He instead closed his eyes and pressed his face into those fingers, his lips parting in a soft sigh.

"John." Sherlock's lips were against his palm, and he took a step forwards, the tips of their shoes now touching.

"Sherlock."

In that moment, neither of them needed to say anything. Sherlock's voice had cracked. John's had been reassuring and smooth. I am so sorry. You are forgiven.

There were tears on John's hand, and so he just moved his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck. Long arms wrapped around him and John hugged Sherlock back, feeling the other man tremble beneath him. Sobs were quieted against his jumper and John kissed Sherlock's neck, his ear, his head, any skin he could reach as he began to cry.

There was nothing that could be said to really express the happiness and anger that was coursing through John as he held his flatmate as he came apart. When John had come apart, when Dr. Watson had been born, it was because Sherlock was gone. Now Sherlock was coming apart because John was here.

The thing about crying hugs is that it is hard to tell when they end. Among girlfriends, a crying hug can be ended with a joke and a small smile from both parties. Between lovers, kisses were the norm. For John and Sherlock, there was nothing to be done because even though their bodies were molded together in an equal grief and happiness, three years of space had made them forget how to react around one another. Added to all of the emotions in the kitchen was a sexual tension that made John want to rip his own clothes off to escape.

They stood like that for a very very long time, until Sherlock's body had stopped its shaking and John's body had finally accepted the shock of having Sherlock back and they were suddenly both okay. That was a good feeling. Sherlock pulled back, and John saw the last three years on his face as clear as dripping ink. There was nothing John could do to fix it, so he moved both of his hands up, his thumbs gently brushing over Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock did a peculiar thing then. He leaned his head down, and pressed it to John's forehead, before murmuring,

"I really had a whole speech planned out complete with uncomfortable rhetoric and everything in the speech explained why I had to go but then I climbed the stairs and I opened the door and I saw you and said your name and I lost myself. I lost myself in the deep and impossible emotions that you cause within me. I cannot believe you didn't come at me with anger. The fact that you accepted me with open arms… well, I mean, your current reaction to this ramble and the look in your eyes suggests that anger is not forgotten, but the fact that you just let me cry like that. Let's not mention that, yes, okay, John?"

John had to take a few moments to truly hear everything Sherlock had been saying. He had spoken so quickly that each word was still snuggling his way through John's brain. But Sherlock was here and Sherlock was back and even though John was angry beyond belief, he couldn't look at Sherlock for another second without saying,

"I love you too, Sherlock."

"okay."

"I want to know everything that led up to this moment in the last three years, Sherlock. I want to know every damned second of it, when you stopped and deduced some poor woman on the street in Paris—"

"French women are dull, it would have been a man, they proved much more interesting, everyone was sleeping with everyone else and scoffing at those who did and scoffing at those who didn't."

"Yes, but that was just an example, Sherlock. Every moment. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Now let's have some tea."

**A/N I'm sorry. I liked the way this felt but I promise there will be one more chapter with intimacy and Johnlock porn. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Final Reunion

The story Sherlock told was dramatic enough in his monotone that it had John at the edge of his armchair. Sherlock was on his couch beneath the smilie face, looking at the ceiling and not at John. He couldn't look at John while he told this story. If he looked at John while he told this story, he would be reminded of how close he was to losing John forever. If he looked at John, he would have to crawl over there and kiss his feet and beg him for forgiveness. Sherlock Holmes did not beg.

Sherlock finished his story with a, "and then I took a taxi cab to my home at 221B Baker Street." John smiles softly, his eyes still broken. He had cried his way through the tale. John had gone three years without this man. But he had done so by hiding his feelings beneath the Dr. Watson cloak of anonymity. Only while listening to this story did John begin to feel all of the pain that was associated with losing Sherlock. It was crippling. John cleared his throat and says softly,

"Sherlock. Can you, um, come here?"

Sherlock did so. He was at his feet, and kneeled before John sitting in his chair, those long violin fingers slowly massaging into the aging knees. Leaning in, he kisses Sherlock's forehead, before rubbing his face gently to Sherlock's hair.

"Will you do something for me, Sherlock?"

"Anything, John. Anything."

"What did I do in the last three years?"

Sherlock looked up at him, and leaned up to gently kiss John. It was like feeling that first ray of sunlight hit his skin after three years of rain and sleet.

"You've cleaned up some, so this could prove harder than I think. Well, the mud on the stairs tells me that you have been finding excuses to visit someplace muddy, and the only forseeable place there is my grave. So you make weekly visits there, but only recently. There is a basket of blankets, muddy and grassy by the door. You've slept there, enough that it is easiest to keep the supplies close by. You've only done it for a month of dedication. I appreciate your dedication to me. To us. There are drag marks on the stairs from you having moved out and then in so quickly. There is a genuine consistency in one particular mark, meaning it was hauled up the stairs after you moved out and back in. A fridge."

"What else?" John began to slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair, and the noise Sherlock made hit him in the groin with a jolt.

"You worked at the surgery. Your professional shoes and nice sneakers, for when you have to do rounds, they are still out, tucked beneath the couch with the heels sticking out. You haven't been there in more than a month. Since Mycroft told you. In the last thirty days, you have learned to wear holes into the floor. You were nervous to see me. There are extra tea cup rings stained into the end table next to your chair. You have taken to drinking three more cups a day, and whenever the thought of me crossed your mind, you would take another drink. The dust has settled in a different pattern, meaning when you moved back in from moving out, you tried to rearrange the room. It made you uncomfortable so you kept it the way it was. Which I like. Consistency is a dear friend of mine."

"Fantastic."

Sherlock shuddered, nuzzling his head into John's fingers and then pulling away so he could worship the tips with soft kisses and nips. John groaned his name softly, and Sherlock looked at him with vulnerability—something that John had seen very rarely. Sherlock was so terrified of losing John that he was willing to accept sexual rejection—at least for now. John didn't do that though. Reject him.

Instead, he slid his fingers to lock behind Sherlock's neck, pulling him up slightly so that he could whisper against his cheek, "You forgot something, mate."

"What?"

"My nightmares."

"I haven't seen the state of the bedroom."

"Let's go then."

Their lips were touching then, and Sherlock was standing, John's fingers still entwined behind his head. The kiss was slow and smooth, both of their skin tainted with salt from the tears shed today. There was a lot of pain in this kiss, as John gently slid his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock could feel John asking for permission to be with him again, and Sherlock parted his lips to touch his tongue to John's. They were stumbling backwards, their bodies colliding into one another and the passion managing to distract Sherlock—he actually hit his heel on the back of an end table. John Watson was the only person capable of making the amazing Sherlock Holmes clumsy.

They were in the bedroom now, and Sherlock pulled away to look around. John took that moment to begin unbuttoning his shirt, kissing every inch of skin now available to him. This wasn't the pale and trembling skin of any man. This was his born-again flatmate, and this skin tasted fantastically warm and delicious. Sherlock was talking.

"—of course John, of course I can tell you have been having nightmares, look at the st-state of my room!" John bit a nipple. Sherlock shuddered.

"You've sl-slept here for the last m-month, preparing for my pr-presence. The nightmares haven't been every night re-recently, because you knew I w-was alive. B-but the sheets have been washed four times in the last two weeks, and y-you aren't wearing clothes to b-bed anymo-oh!"

John had dropped to his knees, embracing the familiar sound of Sherlock's deductions ringing in his ear as he mouthed down Sherlock's stomach, leaving a shining trail over his navel and then slowly down the trail of hair that led down. He began to unbutton it, desperate to know what the great Sherlock Holmes tasted like.

"John. Is there anything else?" Sherlock's voice trembled as he asked, and John shook his head, his teeth dragging against his hip as he pulled the briefs down. The erection came out ready, and John looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes, before his fingers drummed along the base and finally wrapped around it. He pumped it once and watched Sherlock unravel. A hand went to John's hair, knotting desperately as the ex-detective shudders and moans. John's lips touched the tip and Sherlock bucked his hips slightly. He coughed a sorry.

John responded with opening his mouth and showing Sherlock the warmth and wetness of another human's mouth. His body reacted with another slight thrust but John's nails dug enough into his hips to discourage him from going too hard. John's mouth was around his cock and for the first time since heroin, he thought of only one thing. _John's mouth was around his cock. _

Sherlock enjoyed it thoroughly, feeling John's tongue work the underside as he simultaneously sucked on him, the cock growing harder and wetter by the second. It was the most pleasure Sherlock had ever experienced, dear gods. The strain of expletives escaping Sherlock were unheard of, and so John pulled off, and rose, pressing his lips to Sherlock's cursing mouth.

"John. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn." The name came out of Sherlock as he moaned, John pushing him back onto the bed before climbing on top of him. Finally Sherlock gathered enough sense to growl,

"You, my dear Watson, are wearing far too many clothes." John smirks and lets Sherlock strip him down to nothing.

For a few moments, they just looked at each other. This was the moment. It took three years without each other to realize how much they wanted to be together, and now they were. Now they were and the room was hot with sexual tension and there was nothing John Watson wanted more than to feel whole again. He hadn't felt whole since Sherlock Fell. Now he would.

Sherlock's fingers were slowly pumping John's cock, and the noises John was making to each movement and flick of his wrist were a symphony to Sherlock's ears. He registered what movements corresponded with what moves and lifted a hand to stroke John's cheek. Then two of his fingers were in John's mouth and it was the most erotic thing that he had ever felt. That tongue teased the web between his knuckles and sucked so hard that it made Sherlock want to climax right then and there. Once he was finished, John guided his hand behind him.

One finger pressed in and John Watson's back arched, before he pressed his lips to Sherlock's and made his body parallel to his. Those long fingers moved in and out of the veteran, the second having been added with a few grunts and _fuck Sherlock_s. It was fantastic, to hear his name moaned in such a way.

John finally stopped thrusting himself back onto Sherlock's fingers and stopped searching his mouth with his tongue for all of the answers. He gestured for Sherlock to sit up, and straddled him, lowering himself slowly. At first, Sherlock's cock was too thick and it made John cry out. Sherlock licked and kissed and nipped at his neck to distract him, and then couldn't anymore.

John had let go entirely and practically slammed himself down onto his cock, filling himself so completely that he smiled through his moan. Sherlock was filling every hole in him, physically and mentally and emotionally. He began to roll his hips, his cock rubbing against Sherlock's soft stomach. One long pale hand moved to slowly pump that cock, and then their mouths were crashing together in the most fantastic battle of kissing ever witnessed by the likes of them. Their moans rose and fell and then rose again, both of them deducing what made the other feel amazing and what didn't in seconds. That's what love really was—the ability to deduce how to make the other person happy. Through that deduction, you too then become happy.

John was riding Sherlock and Sherlock was thrusting up and the spot within John was being hit with every movement and with a scream, John lost it.

"YES SHERLOCK YES!"

John repainted Sherlock's chest and with that, Sherlock did the same to the inside of John. His vision blurred, his grip tightened and his body tensed as he felt the first co-person orgasm he had ever experienced. His hips bucked wildly, causing John to whimper and shiver in overstimulated pleasure. Sherlock lost it.

"JOHN AHHH JOHN MMM!"

Their bodies molded together as they collapsed into the bed, snuggling almost instantly. After a few minutes of mumbled _wow_s and _yeah_s, Sherlock took himself from John, and then moved a finger to sweep up a stripe of come from his stomach. He licked it and groaned. Of course John tasted delicious. How predictably poetic.

Soon they were snuggling at the base of the bed, kissing and smiling and whispering. Sherlock had said _I love you. _John had smiled and kissed him and whispered back, "As I live and breathe, Sherlock. I love you too."

They fell asleep.


	5. The End

**The Next Morning.**

Sherlock awoke before his John, and kissed his forehead sleepily. They had fallen asleep tangled up in sheets and each other, and there was something about being here that made Sherlock relax. He wasn't overthinking or deducing much of anything when with John intimately. His world revolved around this man and he was okay with that.

But his arm was not, and protested as he tried to move it from beneath John. It had fallen asleep, losing feelings, and so he gently extracted it, putting it against the headboard to stretch and encourage blood flow. Sherlock's eyes glanced up, and noticed a detail that he should have the night before.

Three picture frames, one rectangular centered above two perfect squares. The top one held an envelope that Sherlock had written on years ago. _John. Open when found, if convenient. _

The second was the actual letter, stained with dirt and water—no, not water. It must have been John's tears. Sherlock ached a bit at that.

The third was the only thing that the detective did not recognized, and so he gazed at it for several moments. It was a picture of John, standing in front of 221B Baker Street, his face a blank slate.

John woke up ten minutes later. The first thing they did was go outside, and have a picture taken of them.

For the rest of their lives at 221B Baker Street, above their bed hung the envelope, letter, and picture that allowed them, after three years of pain, a new beginning.


End file.
